


Intersecting Points

by timehopper



Series: Intersect and Overlap [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Drinking, M/M, One Night Stands, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 17:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11582604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timehopper/pseuds/timehopper
Summary: It's been two months since Overwatch was recalled, and Jesse McCree still has not answered. He has other affairs to tend to. Tonight, one of those affairs just happens to be with the quiet stranger he meets in a bar between jobs.





	Intersecting Points

It’s been two months since the recall.  
  
Jesse McCree sits in a bar between jobs, two drinks in and not feeling a damn thing. He’s watching the evening news replay, a short piece about possible terrorist activity in Greece and some suspicious vigilante work that may or may not be Overwatch. He scoffs as he catches a blink of blue light darting around the corner. Cellphone footage, but clear enough for McCree to know that was definitely Tracer. _Good for them_ , he thinks, and not for the first time does he wonder if it’s worth going back.  
  
He’s shaken from his thoughts as something shifts and shuffles beside him. “May I?” The voice that sounds beside him is deep, low, almost growling. McCree shrugs and gestures with his right hand without looking, signaling the stranger to sit. He’s slightly irked that the man chose here of all places to sit, when there are plenty of open spaces along the bar that are nowhere near him or anyone else.  
  
“Thank you.” The sound of something being placed on the floor and the shuffling of clothes is the only thing that tells McCree that the stranger has sat down. He still doesn’t look as the bartender asks for an order, until he hears a quiet, “Sake.”  
  
It's an odd order for someone in a dingy, hole-in-the-wall bar in the middle of nowhere just off the Mexican border, so without thinking McCree looks over to see just what kind of man this actually is.  
  
He doesn’t expect what he sees.  
  
The man looks to be about his age, maybe a little older, if the streaks of grey around his temples are any indication. He’s got his hair tied back, tight, bound in a gold ribbon. His eyes are dark, narrow, heavy-lidded and tired-looking. But there’s the faintest smile on his lips (relief, if McCree had to guess, not unlike his own when he could finally kick back and get himself a damn drink), and it grows marginally when the sake is handed to him. The stranger gratefully accepts it with murmured thanks and raises it to his lips. McCree can’t help but watch.  
  
The stranger seems to notice. Once he puts down the sake, he shifts so that he’s facing McCree. A thick eyebrow is raised (there’s something familiar about it, about the expression as a whole, but McCree is too dumbstruck to pursue that train of thought), but he says nothing for a moment. Silence stretches between them before the man looks away again.  
  
“I am sorry. I did not mean to intrude upon you,” he says, slowly. The low tone just barely snaps McCree back to himself. “It is just…” Another pause, and the smallest chuckle as he fidgets with the sake. “In all my time travelling, I have never come across an actual cowboy.”  
  
McCree starts, eyes going wide, before he slaps a hand on the bar counter and laughs. He tips his hat and with that, all tension completely dissipates. “You serious? You can’t’ve been here long, then.”  
  
“Not long, no. But this is my third time in this region of the States.”  
  
“No kiddin’?” McCree grins. “What brings you here then, if you don’t mind my askin’?”  
  
“Work,” the stranger says simply. He does not elaborate. “And yourself?”  
  
“Work,” McCree echoes. “A little more than that too, though. Personal stuff. You could say this is kinda like my old stompin’ ground.”  
  
“Is that so?”  
  
“Yep.” He signals to the bartender for another whiskey and pushes his empty glass aside. “Born and raised in Santa Fe. Got into a lot of trouble back in the day.”  
  
The stranger’s eyes lock onto his, searching. Judging. They move down, over the rest of his face, then past his shoulders, his chest, his hips (and McCree isn’t sure if he’s only imagining things, but he’s certain the man’s gaze lingers over his crotch), down his legs and to his feet, then back up again, just as slowly. His lips quirk upward in a crooked smirk. “I can only imagine.”  
  
And _ohh,_ that tone is _nice_. McCree grins back, wide and toothy and maybe just a little bit sly. He holds out his hand. “The name’s McCree.”  
  
“Hanzo,” the stranger replies, taking the cowboy’s hand and shaking it without breaking eye contact. “At your service.”

\-----

  
The night goes on and the two men continue chatting, barely comprehending the passing of time amid the stories they tell one another. Most of the patrons have come and gone by now. McCree regales Hanzo with a tale about, naturally, a showdown at high noon with the leader of a prominent gang. He’s certain Hanzo doesn’t believe him, but with the way he listens with rapt attention and nods along, occasionally laughing at something a little bit too embellished, McCree doesn’t particularly care. Hanzo tells him a story about the time he got mugged and sent the attacker to the hospital with a broken arm, completely by accident. They both have violent and sordid pasts, it seems, and the longer they go on like this the more McCree wonders just how well that’ll translate to the bedroom.  
  
Hanzo leans in close, a wicked grin on his face, and if McCree had to guess the man is thinking much along the same lines as he is. But before Hanzo can say anything, his eyes flick to the screen McCree had been watching earlier, and his eyes go wide and his smile falters and falls. The cowboy turns to see what it is and finds that new footage had been found regarding the incident in Greece. A small figure scales the wall like a spider amid gunfire, leaps over a roof, and flicks a blade to send a few bullets back to where they came from. It backflips as it falls away, and McCree can practically hear the smug, metallic laughter ringing in his ears.  
  
The anchors’ faces come back on the screen and McCree turns back to Hanzo, whose jaw is clenched tight. He scowls at the newscast then looks away, going back to his sake.  
  
“Somethin’ the matter?” McCree wraps his fingers around his own glass and watches for any reaction. “Y’seem agitated.”  
  
“I am fine.” Hanzo sighs deeply and drains his drink, then signals for another. His tone leaves little room for argument, but McCree is stubborn and curious, so he presses anyway.  
  
“You sure? Just your mood flipped a whole one-eighty when y’saw that clip on the news.”  
  
“Yes, I am sure.” He closes his eyes. “I… spent some time in Ilios, where that incident happened. The locals were kind to me.”  
  
Something about that rings hollow, but for the time being the cowboy lets it slide. Hanzo’s sake is replaced; McCree drinks down the dregs of his whiskey, tonguing between the ice cubes to catch the last few drops. That seems to get Hanzo’s attention again, and he’s soon levelled with a heavy-lidded stare, that slick smirk back in place. McCree suppresses the shiver that runs down his spine.  
  
“It is late,” Hanzo says suddenly, quietly. It feels like a hasty topic change, but his gaze never leaves McCree’s lips, which linger on the rim of the glass, so McCree hardly cares. “The bar will likely be closed soon. We do not want to keep anyone here longer than necessary…”  
  
He smirks too, picking up on the insinuation right away. “Sure don’t,” he agrees. “Mine, then?”  
  
Hanzo nods. “Yours.”

  
\-----

  
The walk back to the hotel McCree’s staying at consists of the two of them walking side by side, occasionally bumping playfully into one another. They stop at a drugstore and briefly argue over which one of them is going to go inside and buy the lube and condoms, since neither of them was expecting to have company tonight. Eventually McCree caves (“We are bringing them back to _your_ room. _You_ get to keep them after.”) and they’re back on their way.  
  
To his surprise, it turns out Hanzo is staying at the same hotel as he is, but on a different floor. They still end up in McCree’s room, though, McCree tugging Hanzo through the door and shutting it behind them as they drop their bags.  
  
Now that they're finally here, after all the chatting and arguing and bedroom eyes, it's awkward. They both linger in the doorway, Hanzo staring expectantly and McCree doing whatever he can to convince himself this is really happening. It’s been a while since he’s had anyone come home with him, so to speak, and he's nervous; he can hear his heart pounding and fluttering and feel its pulse in his throat.  
  
A moment passes, then two, and the nerves aren't leaving, so McCree forces himself into action and does the first stupid thing that comes to mind. He steps closer to Hanzo, crowds him, and slips a hand around his waist. "So," he drawls, much more uneven and much less suave than he wants, "Come here often?"  
  
Hanzo's face twists into a look of confusion, then an incredulous grin. The he laughs - honest-to-god loud, genuine laughter - and McCree thinks that might be the most beautiful thing he's ever heard as arms wrap around his neck and pull him into a deep, smiling kiss.  
  
From there, everything escalates. McCree’s hands roam from Hanzo’s waist, rubbing up along his spine and settling on the collar of his jacket. He tugs at it, and Hanzo breaks the kiss to shrug it off. He reaches behind himself to hang it on the door handle, surprisingly careful despite the fact his eyes never leave the cowboy. His wicked grin does not falter until he surges forward again, pushing McCree back and leading him clumsily to the bed, a huge contrast to the meticulous hanging of his coat.  
  
The backs of McCree’s knees hit the edge of the bed and he sits, fisting his hands in Hanzo’s shirt and pulling him down with him, but despite the half-moan Hanzo tries to hold back, he is having none of it and pushes the cowboy down flat against the bed with one palm. He pulls away and leers down at McCree, who takes this chance to admire the view.  
  
Hanzo is… stunning. With the jacket on, McCree hadn’t been able to see the firm muscle beneath the (wonderful, wonderful) form-fitting V-neck Hanzo is wearing. He runs his hands from Hanzo’s hips to his front, unabashedly rubbing against the taut muscles of his torso and coming to rest on his chest. He licks his lips and lets his eyes wander from the teasing dip of skin above the shirt’s neckline to where splotches of blue cover an arm. No, not splotches – a tattoo. What he thought were just swatches of blue ink were actually swirls and clouds, cut with lightning and embraced by a long, scaly tail that nearly shimmers in the dim light. Or maybe it really does. It's entrancing, and McCree can't help but follow the line of it as it coils down to Hanzo's wrist, where he sees the fanged, gaping jaws of a dragon, poised to devour anything Hanzo touches.  
  
He thinks he wouldn’t mind being devoured.  
  
Hanzo follows McCree’s gaze. A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. “See something you like?”  
  
McCree swallows, mouth dry, but somehow manages to sound completely composed. “Honey, I see _lots_ of stuff I like.”  
  
"Good." Hanzo leans in close, just hovering near enough to nip at the cowboy's bottom lip. "Would you like to see more?"  
  
He tries to swallow a groan and fails miserably. "You know I do," McCree rasps, and he takes no small amount of delight in the shiver he feels run through Hanzo. He runs his hands up along strong, broad shoulders and slips his fingertips just beneath the low neckline of Hanzo's shirt. "C'mon, sugar, I know you're dyin' to show me."  
  
The other man needs no further prompting; he is quick to back away and pull the shirt up over his head and toss it aside -- again in stark contrast to how he hung his coat. _Must've been expensive._  
  
McCree snaps out of his musings when he notices Hanzo has come closer again, and he looks up to see the curl of the dragon's tail over Hanzo’s chest. He longs to lean up and tongue at it, but Hanzo's gaze keeps him firmly in place. That haughty smirk holds him there more effectively than any dragon's gleaming teeth ever could.  
  
Were it not for the way the muscle shifted as Hanzo tilted his head to the side, McCree might have stared forever. But he looked up in response to the movement to see Hanzo raising a brow questioningly (and there was that expression again, curiosity and superiority rolled together into something so achingly familiar, and yet still not close enough to anything for McCree to even begin to guess where he'd seen it before), and before he can even ask he's taking the cue with a small "Oh, right" and undoing the buttons to his own shirt. Before he can shrug it off, Hanzo's hands are on him, pushing it aside to expose his shoulders. His lips are parted and his eyes roam reverently alongside his hands.  
  
"See something you like?" McCree can't help but grin at his own joke. Hanzo's mouth practically snaps shut, as if he'd just realized he'd been gawking. In the second it takes for Hanzo to form a response, McCree is on him, right where he wants to be, kissing the tip of the dragon's tail and holding the other man close by the small of his back.  
  
Hanzo moans -- no holding back this time -- and leans into it, arching his back to get closer, closer, but never quite close enough. Not for himself, and not for McCree. For a moment, the cowboy thinks he wouldn't mind being the one to devour the dragon instead of the other way around.  
  
And _oh,_ is that a thought.  
  
No sooner does it cross his mind than he moves downward, lips dragging as he goes. Hanzo is still standing, which makes things a little easier, but he still has to bend at an awkward angle to get as low as he wants to go, so he pauses when he reaches the trail of hair leading from Hanzo's navel to just below the waistband of his pants. He grins wickedly and replaces his mouth with a hand, straightening up again. He cups the bulge between Hanzo's legs and presses down, probably more insistently than is strictly necessary, but he wants to make sure he gets his point across.  
  
"What d'you think?" he asks. By now, the excited tremor in his voice has subsided and he's all low, thick, honeyed tones. "Wanna show me what else you're workin' with there?"  
  
He feels Hanzo twitch in his palm as hips cant forward almost imperceptibly. He's holding back again, McCree notes, and that simply will not do. He pushes forward, strong hands guiding Hanzo a step backward, and he comes to kneel before the other man.  
  
Loathe though he is to move his hands, he hooks them in the waistband of Hanzo's pants. He looks up imploringly. "Lemme get these off you, sugar. Wanna do this right."  
  
Hanzo practically growls in response and that's all the permission McCree needs. He pops the button open and slides the zipper down, then pants and underwear are quick to slide off. Hanzo steps out of them only a little bit awkwardly, but it's masked by how quickly McCree's hands are back on him and pulling him close.  
  
He takes a second to kiss at the jut of Hanzo's hipbone, moving inward ever slowly, stopping to nip as he goes. Every scrape of teeth has Hanzo's hips twitching forward, has breath rattling through clenched teeth as he fights against the impulse to moan. "C'mon, doll," McCree purrs. "No need t' hold back. It's just you an' me now."  
  
Before Hanzo can say anything, lips wrap around the head of his cock. The suddenness of it is enough to shock him into crying out, and there's no longer any reservation as he thrusts his hips forward, forcing himself further into McCree's eager mouth.  
  
The gunslinger smirks around Hanzo's cock and just barely manages to choke out a laugh. He opens his eyes and turns them up to take in the other man's face, and -- _oh. Oh, now_ that _is a sight._ Face flushed and eyes just barely open, Hanzo stares down at McCree, bottom lip clenched between his teeth. His hands hover in the air, hesitant; it's clear he doesn't know what to do with them, so McCree gladly takes one in his and guides it to the back of his head, pressing down until fingers clench in his hair.  
  
"Ah..." Hanzo reads his signal loud and clear and runs his hands through it, stopping to grip tightly at the strands at McCree's temple. He tugs then, just this side of painful. It's everything McCree could have asked for, and the pleased groan he barely manages to get out around the cock in his mouth encourages another pull. Soon he barely even has to move himself; Hanzo is holding him so firmly in place it feels more like the man is fucking his face rather than letting Jesse blow him. It's not something McCree is used to, by any means -- he typically likes to lead -- but he's far too turned on to protest.  
  
He takes Hanzo in all the way, trying to swallow him down, but just as his throat clenches, Hanzo pulls him right off and all but hauls him back up onto the bed. Jesse is too surprised by this to protest, until he sees Hanzo stalk away. "Hey, now -- wait --" He reaches out, but his protests go ignored. McCree yearns to have the other man back on him, forcing himself further and further into his throat.  
  
He sighs in defeat, and consoles himself with staring as Hanzo bends down to rummage through the shopping bag they had unceremoniously dumped at the door. The view is great, at least.  
  
McCree's hand immediately jumps to his own cock, still pressing against the inseam of his jeans. He idly wonders why the _fuck_ they're still on, but makes no move to unzip them and free himself until Hanzo turns around again and he's sure he's being watched.  
  
He smirks as he pulls down the zipper of his jeans and tugs at them, delighting in the way Hanzo licks his lips. He takes that as a sign of approval and strokes himself slowly, more than happy to put on a show. From the way Hanzo takes himself in hand, too, McCree is pretty sure he's more than happy to _get_ a show.  
  
With his free hand, he beckons the other man over. "C'mon, sugar. Don't make me do all the work myself."  
  
"Never." And there's that wicked smile again, the one that promises so much by saying so little. Hanzo moves quickly, cat-like; he's back at the edge of the bed before McCree can fully comprehend it, and he practically pounces on the larger man, pressing their lips together. One hand comes to cup the cowboy's cheek while the other brackets the two of them. Hanzo's lips are soft, perfect; his tongue slides against McCree's own like it was made to. He wonders if Hanzo can taste himself. He wonders if he likes it.  
  
By the way he moans into the kiss and his hips surge forward, McCree thinks the chances of that are pretty high.  
  
He gasps for air as a hand tugs at the hair behind his ear again, forcing their lips apart as his neck is forcibly bared. Hanzo is kissing down along it, tongue darting out to taste. His teeth scrape light, teasing lines downward, until they sink in at the juncture between neck and shoulder. McCree groans, his own hand coming to thread in Hanzo's. He holds him there, encouraging him with every push forward, every mindless surge of his hips.  
  
The hand that was holding him in place leaves, and McCree groans in protest again. "No -- Hanzo, honey, please --"  
  
He hears, he _feels_ a rumbling growl -- an actual god-damned _growl_ \-- from Hanzo. The man does not let up from where he is, sucking a deep bruise to McCree's neck, but that hand wanders. Jesse can't see it -- isn't sure he wants to -- but he hears the distinct _pop!_ of a bottle cap, and suddenly everything rushes back to him.  
  
"Hey, hold on a sec there, partner," he starts, but his voice is strained. Hanzo either doesn't catch what he says or he pretends not to, because he doesn't stop, and it's a miracle how he's able to work the bottle between his hands and coat his fingers in lube without even looking. Kind of hot, honestly, if McCree cares to admit it to himself, which he absolutely does when Hanzo sucks one last time, particularly hard, and lifts himself off from the dark blooming hickey he had been so eager to leave.  
  
A cold, slick finger slides between McCree's legs, teases at his entrance. The cowboy shivers and his eyes practically roll back in his head. He arches his back, trying to force more contact anywhere he can without even realizing what it is he's doing.  
  
A quiet laugh. "You were saying, cowboy?"  
  
Saying... what had he been saying? He looks up at Hanzo and licks his lips wetly. "Y'know, I don't rightly recall."  
  
He's rewarded for his dazed submission with a lingering kiss. It's just enough to distract him from the finger that slips inside him.  
  
The kiss breaks and McCree cries out. He isn't used to being penetrated. To his credit, Hanzo stops moving, and simply watches him for a reaction. "Are you all right?" he asks. There's a hint of worry colouring his voice, and for some reason, McCree thinks he feels flattered. This is nothing more than a one-night stand, and yet here this man is, trying to make him feel special. _Nearly enough to bring a man to tears_ , he thinks sarcastically.  
  
"Yeah... yeah, 'm fine," he says instead of voicing his real thoughts. "Just... been a while, is all."  
  
"Ah." Hanzo's brow relaxes, and he nods in understanding. "For me, as well."  
  
Now this surprises McCree. "Shit, really? Man as gorgeous as you's gotta have people throwin' themselves at you." He ignores the phantom pain of jealousy toward these imaginary hypotheticals. Hanzo is, for all intents and purposes, a stranger to him. This is the first and last time he will ever see the man; why should he care?  
  
The blush spreading across Hanzo's face does not go amiss, nor does the way he averts his eyes. "Perhaps. I rarely spend time in the company of others. And of those, let's just say that few are eager to take me to bed with them." Before McCree can ask, Hanzo's expression returns to normal: wicked and haughty, all in one. "And besides, I am very discerning with my tastes. I do not approach just anyone."  
  
"Well if that ain't a compliment." McCree's grin matches Hanzo's now, full of devilish promise. With Hanzo stilled inside him, he's slowly adjusted to the feeling of intrusion, and he shifts slightly to try and encourage more. "Guess you could say I'm pretty discerning, too. I don't let just anyone fuck me."  
  
Hanzo shudders. "And is that what you want?"  
  
McCree shifts and leans up to breathe against Hanzo's lips: "You know it is."  
  
He closes the distance between them, nibbling at Hanzo's lips as the other man tries to slip his tongue into McCree's mouth. He's pushing in again, slowly, and while the kiss takes some of the edge off, McCree is still tense.  
  
He takes deep, steady breaths to calm himself when they break apart. Hanzo is staring intently at him, searching his expression, trying to discern if he should keep going or if it would be better to stop, but soon McCree's knit brows relax minutely, and he squeezed-shut eyes open just the smallest margin. His mouth twists in half a smirk, and he huffs a breathless laugh. "C'mon, sugar... that all ya got?"  
  
Hanzo hums, tilting his head to the side. "Ready for more?"  
  
"Born for it."  
  
Hanzo rolls his eyes, but he's smiling fondly. Slowly, too slowly, another finger enters McCree, spreading him open, then another, moments later, when they're both ready. Hanzo pulls his hand away soon after and reaches for the condom wrapper, set aside on the bed. He's flagged slightly, so he takes himself in hand and begins to stroke, eyes locked on McCree's. He’s putting on a show. _Payback for before._  
  
It's unbelievably hot.  
  
Hanzo hovers over him, propped up on one elbow. His hair, long since fallen out of its tight ponytail, tickles where it just barely brushes against McCree's skin. He looks, for lack of a better term, _hungry._ Like the dragon that curls around his arm. It's nearly electric; McCree can swear he can feel currents coming off Hanzo’s skin, sparks igniting and catching on him, making him all the more desperate to get the man inside him.  
  
The tip of Hanzo's cock presses against him and he takes a deep breath. He says nothing, and Hanzo does not wait for him to. He pushes in slowly, eyes screwed shut as he goes. His breathing is laboured, ragged, even moreso than McCree's. Every muscle in his body is drawn taut: in the low light of the room and the slight buzz of liquor, McCree wonders if this man might be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.  
  
He's brought out of that thought when he feels Hanzo pressed tight to him. He's fully sheathed inside McCree now, and they both just pause, holding their breath, unsure if they're simply savouring the moment or if they're waiting for the other to move. Hanzo's head hangs low. His teeth clench. He's holding back again.  
  
Once he realizes this, McCree is the first to move. He shifts, just slightly, drawing a raspy groan from Hanzo's throat. "Haah..." McCree takes a deep breath, rolls his hips once, and Hanzo very nearly chokes. "You doin' okay up there, sugar?"  
  
It takes a moment for Hanzo to catch his breath, but when he does, he tilts his head back up to catch the cowboy's eye, and Jesse swears his heart stops for a split second.  
  
Hanzo is flushed, cheeks a ruddy pink, but his lips are drawn back in an almost beaming smile. His hair is messy, tangled and tucked behind his ear on one side. The grey wings stick out even more erratically than before from hands being run through them. A bead of sweat trickles down his forehead, past his greying temples. He's practically glistening -- or maybe that's just McCree's imagination. He doesn't much care either way; he wants to burn this sight into his memory forever, since he knows this will be the last time he sees it.  
  
"I am fine," Hanzo pants out eventually. "As you said... it has been a while."  
  
"No kiddin'." McCree's voice is much more breathless than intended. He shifts again to try and distract from it, and that is the final push Hanzo needs before he sets to motion. He starts out slowly, to his credit, minding McCree's lingering discomfort, but with every thrust in and every push back from the cowboy, he goes a little bit faster.  
  
No more words are said between them. The grunts and groans, the snap of hips and slap of skin-to-skin contact, the shuffling of sheets and the hisses of breath stolen between kisses is all either of them need to read the other. Hanzo braces himself against the bed, one hand clenching in the same spot as before, behind McCree's ear. He pulls; McCree wraps his legs around him, pulling him in deeper, closer, so much so it's hard for either of them to move, but holding him at just the right angle to grind obscenely against his prostate.  
  
Hanzo buries his face in McCree's neck, nibbling at the hickey he had left, then moving up to suck another. McCree scratches deep, red, angry lines down Hanzo's back. Everything is chaos: it's messy and sloppy and stinging and everything neither of them knew they wanted or needed until it was happening, until Hanzo was buried deep inside McCree and McCree was clenching down around him, fighting not to scream his name and failing miserably.  
  
Hanzo finishes first, nails digging deep into McCree's scalp where he still holds it. He comes wordlessly, almost soundlessly save for a sharp exhale of breath through gritted teeth. He stills but for the hand on McCree's cock, drawing him ever closer to completion as well. It only takes a few thrusts into the tight vice of Hanzo's hand, and soon McCree is spilling himself into it.  
  
Hanzo's eyes are unfocused as he stares at his hand, now dripping with cum, and he tilts his head curiously at it. For a second McCree wonders if he's going to get to watch Hanzo lick it off himself, but is disappointed when instead the other man just flicks off what he can and wipes the rest off on McCree ( _Gross_ ). The cowboy furrows his brow and makes to protest, but Hanzo seems to realize what he's done and gets up to walk to the ensuite. The sound of running water is just barely audible through the ringing in McCree's ears.  
  
Hanzo returns maybe seconds, maybe minutes later, and rouses Jesse from his light doze with a warm, wet towel running over his chest. He cleans the cowboy up quietly, then puts the towel aside to lie next to him. McCree just barely notices that Hanzo has already cleaned himself up.  
  
He scoots over, lying on his back while Hanzo lies on his stomach and drapes an arm over him. They grin, rather stupidly, at one another, just enjoying one another's warmth in the afterglow of sex. It’s been too long since McCree has allowed himself to enjoy this.  
  
He yawns. He has no way of knowing if Hanzo will be here in the morning, but the last thing he thinks before he drifts off is how much he would like to wake up to those dark, smoky eyes.

  
  
\-----

  
McCree wakes up to an empty bed.  
  
He can already feel he is alone in the bed, despite his closed eyes. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he fell asleep with someone there. But they haven’t left yet; it’s clear from the sounds of shuffling there’s someone else in the room. He opens his eyes to see Hanzo standing, half-dressed, at the sink. His back is turned to McCree. The coil of dragon wrapped around his arm practically shines in the morning light. He turns around at the sound of movement, and hums. An amused grin plays about his lips, barely there, but then again, McCree likes to think he is a little bit more adept at reading people than most.  
  
"Good morning," Hanzo greets. He walks back toward the bed, bare feet making no noise against the ugly hotel carpet. He hands the glass of water in his hand to McCree, and while the cowboy gratefully drinks it, a hand runs through his hair.  
  
He swallows and places the empty glass aside. "Mornin', sunshine." His grin is lopsided as he gazes fondly at Hanzo and idly wonders if he should dare attempt to steal another kiss before they inevitably part ways. He finds himself attempting it before he even knows what he's doing. Hanzo responds very enthusiastically, not hesitating at all to deepen the kiss and wrap his arms around McCree’s neck to pull him in closer.  
  
They sit there for a minute, lazily making out, until McCree pulls away and laughs. "Have t'admit, I wasn't so sure you'd be here when I woke up."  
  
"Neither was I." The admission is somehow refreshing. "But I am still here."  
  
"So you are." He leans in again and captures Hanzo in another kiss, much lighter and softer this time. “You plan on sticking around for a bit?”  
  
“I was considering it.”  
  
It's another hour before they leave the bed.

  
\-----

  
Hanzo redresses quietly at the edge of the bed. McCree puffs on a cigar as he watches, not caring at all about the ash that breaks off the end and falls to the bed. Checkout is in an hour, anyway, and he doesn’t plan to come back here for a long time.  
  
“You sure you don’t wanna stick around a little longer, partner?” McCree asks. “Could do with a little company before I head on outta town.”  
  
Hanzo huffs a small laugh and shakes his head as he treads across the floor to grab his long-discarded shirt. “No. If I was not needed elsewhere, I may have taken you up on your offer. But as it is…” He casts a look over his shoulder at McCree, eyes narrow and glinting with something that might have been mischievous. It’s hard to tell. “I have a train to catch.”  
  
A smirk plays at Hanzo’s lips and he bends down to pick up his shirt. McCree cranes his neck for a better look, and at this angle, something catches his eye that he hadn’t noticed in the dim light and the pleasant, blurring buzz of alcohol.  
  
Hanzo has another tattoo.  
  
It’s white ink, faint – or maybe it’s just a pale scar, he can’t tell from here, and Hanzo’s shirt sleeves quickly cover it up. But the shape of it is unmistakable in the short glimpse he gets: two creatures – dragons, judging by the spiny ridges along their backs – circling one another, each with jaws open around the tail of the other. He knows that symbol.  
  
McCree pales. How had he not noticed it before?  
  
Hanzo does not seem to notice the change in McCree’s demeanor, or if he does, he does not care. He takes his coat off the door handle and shrugs it on before grabbing the large guitar case he had brought with him to the bar last night. Somehow, Jesse doubts there’s actually a guitar in there.  
  
He does his best to school his darkened expression when Hanzo turns around. The man tilts his head to the side curiously, contemplatively. He’s searching for something, but, seemingly finding nothing, he simply bows shallowly. “It was a pleasure meeting you, McCree.”  
  
“Likewise.” He has to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from saying anything else. Hanzo hums and opens the door without looking back. The door _clicks_ shut behind him and McCree stamps out his cigar on the back of his prosthetic. He tosses it to the floor and flops back on the bed, flesh hand raking through his hair.  
  
The tattoos. The way he had tensed up after seeing Genji on the news. His _name_. How had he not seen it?  
  
How had he not realized he had been fucking _Hanzo Shimada_?

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and are interested in seeing more or even just having a chat, feel free to contact and/or follow me on twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r), my [personal tumblr](http://therealhousewivesofhyrule.tumblr.com/), or if you're just interested in my Overwatch stuff then at my [Overwatch sideblog](http://naptimefornaughtyrobots.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I also have a [writing blog](https://intim3ate.tumblr.com) where I post progress, WIPs, and take requests. Please check that out if you'd like to see more!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and supporting me. ♥


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